


accidental therapy

by SongbirdsTune



Category: Avengers, Captain America, Marvel Universe - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, lets fix everything, puns, slightly quirky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongbirdsTune/pseuds/SongbirdsTune
Summary: A ghost turns up in her apartment with a metal arm looking for his past, she can't turn him away. The path to healing and redemption is never smooth.





	1. a prologue of sorts

There was someone else sitting next to her, looking down with empty eyes.

Beginning. Middle. End.

Every story has one – don't they? And yet the stories we find beneath the covers of books are vastly different to the ones we find in real life.

They aren't as clear cut. Real life has a thousand conflicts, a book has only a handful.

And beginnings … beginnings in books are a clear thing – they start at chapter one, the first word. That first line.

Beginnings in real life are often difficult to define or put one's finger on. Often they can creep up on you, completely unawares. Sometimes they can start with a boom, other times as a soft whisper in your ear.

My beginning – or the beginning of this tale I'm going to relate to you, was quite easy to spot. Or perhaps it wasn't.

For one of the main figures in it, the story began with one word, one question (Bucky?). But he wouldn't realise that for a while.

For me, it began with walking into my living room.

Every beginning is different, isn't it? Even for those in the same story.

Middles are a muddle – a thousand dissimilar threads in a confusing tangle. They often seem like the end – the very, very End. But they aren't. The darkest hour precedes the dawn, as the saying goes. For my middle, I tried to be like the Titan Atlas – holding a crushing burden upon my shoulders. (Spoilers: it didn't work out the way I planned. But then, things rarely do.)

Endings … ah, but I mustn't spoil mine, though I might say that it was a bittersweet one, which is both the best and worst type of ending.

I ought to set the scene a little – hadn't I?

"Secret Government Organisation Uncovered" was one of the more unimaginative newspaper headlines in those weeks. "Spies Among Us" was another.

The world for those employed by S.H.I.E.L.D was tipped upside down and everyone else thoroughly enjoyed reading about them. Though some experienced a terrible sense of paranoia and panic – ("Big Brother: A Reality" ran the Daily Bugle) – others found the existence of a James Bond-esque type organisation was absolutely with-no-doubt-about-it awesome.

("S.H.I.E.L.D: NO CLICKBAIT NEEDED!" was the title of a post in one of the more popular blogs, followed by the sub-header of: "… and they had gadgets too!").

I found it interesting reading – who wouldn't? A world of espionage and agents and secrets had landed in our laps and we hadn't had to pay a single dollar for it. I mean – who knew that the parasitic (and – let's just put it out there – pee-yourself-terrifying) HYDRA had orchestrated the Starks' death? Poor Tony Stark.

And then the list of all those who were going to be killed (for the good of humanity. Yeah, right. The good of humanity my foot) by HYDRA was published by one intrepid blogger and those who were on it were equal parts frightened and proud.

My brother was one of them. I was the one who was frightened and he was the one who was bursting with pride (he knew he was intelligent and brilliant, he told me over the phone. I informed him that his PhD in Electrical and Electronic Engineering rather pointed in that direction and he shouldn't have to rely on a death-warrant to confirm it).

But forgive me, I'm wandering from my purpose.

While the world was finding the database and history of S.H.I.E.L.D and HYDRA fascinating, my Aunt sat in her comfortable chair and knitted a jumper for Philip. Hers was a peaceful existence – until her door was knocked on one evening and she shuffled in those big slippers of hers to open it.

Ready for a mildly interesting fact about myself? My Aunt is actually my adopted mother. She and her husband fostered me – even changed my name (Ida, they named me. After Aunt's own aunt). I grew up calling them Aunt and Uncle and when I was officially adopted, the names stuck.

My younger brother is the biological child of Aunt Becky and Uncle Scott and lives several states away, though his presence is frequently felt by the often-uttered request to forward his post (which he never got around to sorting out).

Every day come rain or shine, I trot down four flights of stairs and catch the bus which takes me away to my very lively job of angry customers and constantly ringing phones.

Every evening, at five o'clock, I leave the office and its insults and complaints behind ("I ordered pink – pink! This is salmon coloured!") and return to our little apartment.

But one day - or once upon a time, if you prefer your stories to begin that way - I came home.

And my Aunt wasn't alone.

There was someone else sitting next to her, looking down with empty eyes.

And that, that was where my story begins.


	2. double take

_You're doomed_ – wisdom from Future Ida

Once upon a time … it all began.

But before a beginning, there must come an ending – the End of What Came Before.

I'll tell you about it – take you there with me, so that you can breathe the same, ordinary air as I did then, feel the same, ordinary wind rustle through my hair and leave the office with the same, ordinary sigh of relief that I always gave.

And then, over the threshold of home we'll step and the ordinariness of our shared day and my life will simply go 'poof'. Together we'll watch as 'normal' is remade and redefined so that it has as much to do with the former way of things as a cow does a comet.

Ready?

There are approximately two and half flights of stairs which separate me from freedom. As my feet – unfortunately attired in sensible low heels – take each step, I feel as though I'm shedding the stress of the day and leaving Mrs Harper and her shrill requests for a refund behind me. For three hours she bounced from me to Amy and back to me again. Some people don't understand the meaning of a politely phrased 'no'.

I think I'll be replaying our (many) conversations in my dreams, mashing them up into one weary, repetitive record.

**Dream-Haunting Record:**

" _No, ma'am, I'm afraid that as you have had the product for the past two years and therefore exceeded the guarantee- ma'am, it doesn't matter how much it cost y- The fact that you ripped it doesn't- it isn't a fault of the product ma'am, riding a motorbike in priceless- I'm afraid I can't ma'am. Yes, you may speak to my manager. My name is Ida. Yes, I'm aware it's old fashioned; I wasn't consulted on my nam- Yes, ma'am. Good day, ma'am."_

_[Chorus of the anxiety-inducing sounds of a thousand phones ringing all at once]_

The very last step I take with a bounce and then it's through the grimy, glass doors and out into the bliss of honking horns, whizzing cars and rushing pedestrians whose troubles with such and such product aren't poured into _my_ ear.

A single sigh – quick and short – and I'm away.

My steps are quick because, really, I don't want to miss my bus. But quickened steps don't stop me glimpsing the headlines - black and grim against grey paper - as I walk by a newsstand.

"THIRD THREE YEAR OLD MISSING. THE KID-NAPPER STRIKES AGAIN?" is written in exactly the same font that proclaimed the marriage of the 'king and queen' of Hollywood, yesterday. I stop and walk back to get a closer look at a face of impish innocence. Missing. Poor kid. I wonder what horrors you are enduring.

I'd better go though, or I'll miss my bus. The walk home isn't the most pleasant one I could think of and I'd rather avoid it. The wind whips my hair into my face and I remove the chestnut strands from my line of vision as I leave the musty scent of newspapers behind me.

Problems with short hair? I could list twenty of 'em. Not the least is the constant mystery of disappearing hair clips. Though that's more to do with my faulty memory rather than my hair length.

As soon as I get home I'm logging onto the S.H.I.E.L.D expose blog (the _Buckler_ ) and reading the latest findings which are presented by the hard working bloggers in a nice, coherent manner. They always link their source material and I like viewing the original documents as well as their take on things.

Hmm, wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D would be able to find the missing kids. We'll never find out now.

A taxi whizzes by, faster than the rest (amidst many a honking of the horn), and I'm reminded once again that I really shouldn't dawdle. Night is drawing closer, and the streetlights will be flickering on soon.

On the bus I dig into my purse and recover the book I'm reading, it's a book of poems. Philip has been ribbing me on my usual reading material (a balanced diet of romance, thrillers, romance, detective novels, and romance) and has demanded that I read 'higher' things to improve my intellect.

I haven't read Poe since high school, but find his 'the Raven' more fascinating than I did back then. I've got my own back on Philip by reciting (or writing) the line of 'quoth the raven, nevermore' every time he asks a question. And sends me an email. And makes my phone let out an obnoxious 'ping' with a message. Childish? Yes – very. Satisfying? Oh _yes_.

I even wrote it on his mail.

Kipling's 'If' keeps me going all the way home. I speak it in my mind, mouthing the words and feeling the rhythm of the thing rise up and down. I've read it three times by the time the bus stops with a hiss of the breaks.

It's my stop and a hasty scramble to get the book into my purse and myself off the bus.

I feel distinctly intellectual. Oh yeah, I want to tell the world. _I read poems now._

My key into the door, a quick check for mail and then I'm climbing the stairs. The same ones which I hurried down this morning seem to have grown in height. I _wish_ they'd get the elevator sorted. But – what am I thinking? It's been broken for a year now. I've complained four times already and another complaint would tip me into 'aaaaaannnnddd now you're nagging' territory.

(AND DO YOU KNOW WHY I'D BE LABELLED A NAG? Who's fault would it be? The elevator's. Because it's broken.)

(Also, the patriarchy.)

(Probably.)

Besides, I tell myself as I huff ever upwards, it's good exercise. And I need to exercise as I never go to a gym, much less belong to one. Why not? Because it's just not a natural setting and the lighting is _terrible_ for my complexion.

And yes, that's an excuse. And yes, I'm sticking to it.

Finally. At last. At _long_ last, I've reached the top and am facing our door with its peeling blue paint and tarnished golden letters proclaiming our flat number (the '2' of our twenty-three is tilting downwards. I really must fix that).

A key in the lock and I'm pushing the heavy door open.

"Honey, I'm home!" I announce, drawing out the 'home' so it sounds long, distorted, and supremely annoying.

But Aunt Becky doesn't reply and my throat seems to develop a lump and instead of taking off my light green coat and hanging it up, I simply drop my purse onto the hall floor and open the door to our living room.

And there she is, sitting on her comfortable black chair with her knitting needles in still hands. Her face is turned, but when the door opens she looks at me and gives me a small smile. Wrinkled lips pull upwards and her eyes look over bright and her face, pale. But she is the very best sight I've seen all day and I start to smile back when I see the man sitting next to her.

He's sitting, leaning on his arms with elbows on his knees. His jacket is a brownish colour and a baseball hat is lying neglected on the floor.

He looks like a down and out – what with the beginnings of a beard and the short greasy hair hanging over his face. But then, he could be at the very peak of fashion. Fashion is very hard to follow these days.

**The questions that conquer all others:**

a) What is he doing _here_?

b) Who is he?

c) _Why_ is he?

He gives me a glance – using the very least amount of effort he needs to do so – and I'm met with eyes which look … empty.

There's a lethal nothingness to them. Like he's a bear that's been caught in a trap for days and days and has lost all hope and yet he's still rather deadly and could chew your- my analogy game isn't strong. I should stop.

The moment passes, his eyes dip down and settle on the floor and Aunt Becky is speaking: "Ida dear, I'd like you to meet-" and here her voice trembles (not much, but enough for me to feel a slice of anger towards this stranger) "-my brother. Bucky."

The world screeches to a halt.

I command my aunt to repeat herself. With a slap to the forehead and a groan, I drop to the floor like a puppet who's lost her strings.

Okay. I don't. I just stand there and do a darn good impression of Pose 102 from Philip's drama class (' _you're a fish and your beloved is dating another fish with PRETTIER FINS!'_ ) - there's a lot of gaping, with a bit of gulping thrown in for good measure.

_And in that moment, like a genie's poof, the wisps of an ordinary life vanish. Something - that isn't my jaw - shifts, but I didn't realise it – not until later. Much later. When my bruised and battered body lay on a cold, hard chair and I was left alone. Utterly and completely alone. Then I was able to lay my finger on this moment and say 'here - here it ended, yet here - here, it also began'_


	3. knife to meet you

_"Were you, er, iced?"_

**Important Facts About Ida** :

She owns an old, beaten up green van which is always at the mechanic's,

she loathes white chocolate but adores black

and

she doesn't much like surprises (in fact, she downright hates them. There's something about returning home to find _'oh hi Ida, did you know you were once named Gertrude? Bahaha. You sure lucked out on the name game, huh?'_ Ida bears a grudge against her adopted brother for that one.)

When Aunt Becky says: _"Ida dear, I'd like you to meet my brother, Bucky"_ I receive a unpleasant jolt of surprise (this is, by the way, a colossal understatement) but I'm not given any time to respond, for she speaks again: "And would you go and put the kettle on. Bucky," there is a certain hesitance in her words, "what kind of drink would you like? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

He raises his head and stares at her. "I don't know."

I'm certain a frown wedges itself on my brow. How … strange. Well, the whole situation is _beyond_ strange but not knowing you preferred beverage is _quite_ strange. On the scale of strangeness it ranks maybe a 4.8. Out of 3. But then, he may just be indecisive. Or then again he may genuinely not know his favoured drink which is _rather_ strange, unless he is in the middle of a crisis _('Do I even know what tea is anymore?!')_

"Coffee," he says suddenly. Abruptly. "I'll have coffee."

The question of 'how do you take it?' hovers on my lips but Aunt Becky is giving me a warning look, so I simply turn and go back into the hall to the kitchen, where all the kitchen knives are. I mean. Where all the drink making things are. Ah- _hem._

I'll give him a black coffee, I think as I fill the kettle and switch it on. He doesn't look like the type who has milk – I imagine a bitter black would do him nicely. With the kettle on and a cup ('Don't worry, be happy' painted on the side, along with a bright yellow smiley face – a gift from Philip) ready- No. I'd better change that. It doesn't quite seem to fit him.

The cup is exchanged for a plain white one and the instant coffee is mixed with boiling water. Will he take sugar? I'll give him one. No, no I won't.

My mind is numb, yet racing at the same time. A paradox. Two actually: one, how am I going to get us out of this situation – because this _can't_ be 'my brother, Bucky' so I should probably call the police. And two, if this is 'my brother, Bucky', why does he look much, _much_ younger than his younger sister?

Paradoxes. Why can't life be simple?

I slip a kitchen knife up my sleeve. Just … to be safe.

When I walk back into the living room, I have a cup of black coffee on a tray with a little, ceramic jug of milk and some lumps of sugar perfectly balanced in a little pyramid. I try hard not to frown or look worried.

_(I am a cool and calm and collected cucumber. I am graceful like a swan. No. Like TEN swans.)_

What if Aunt Becky has been conned by- I look at his face and shove a stool towards him with one foot. The magazines ( _The New Yorker_ and one of the many home owner ones: "Chic Bathroom Flooring" it proclaims) slide off and I set the tray down.

"So … " I say, suggestively. Come on, Auntie, give me something to work with – you can't just say that this man who looks at _least_ as young as Philip is your long dead brother without a little explanation.

But she doesn't say anything. Rather, she smiles at 'Bucky' and tells him how she and Scott renamed me after Aunt Ida – can you remember her? she asks.

He looks at her and frowns. No. He can't.

He stirs his coffee and takes a hesitant sip. It's like he doesn't know what to do with himself. I sit down next to him on the couch, maintaining my distance – but not too far from Aunt Becky, and not too far that I can't leap at him with a knife. (Because I'm so very capable of doing that.)

"So – where have you been?" I ask him.

He sets his cup down and watches me. His eyes are almost … haunted (perhaps I imagine this – I'm better at reading voices than faces) and his silence is disquieting.

I stare for far too long and it feels like someone has pushed me into the ocean and there's sharks there and the sharks are trying to hypnotise me like snakes do and yet I can't _look away and_ –

(Analogy game: Poor. Very poor.)

I swallow, stare at his gloved hands instead of his face and pursue my line of questioning – Aunt Becky's words are far too absurd to be a reality. _Surely._ I mean, _come on._ This kind of thing doesn't happen.

"We, er, I was always told that you died in the war."

He still looks at me.

"Okay. Um. Have you- I mean were you, er-" This is ridiculous. "Were you, er, iced?" My voice rises at the end, going up a pitch. I clear my throat and rush hurriedly on. "Like Captain America?"

Captain America.

That gets a reaction. But it doesn't look like he wants to answer it. "Maybe."

"Bucky is going to stay with us for a while." Aunt Becky announces, stopping me from questioning him further. "He's been away and now it's time for he and I to get properly acquainted." The knitting needles clink as she drops them, leans over and pats his knee. "Letters can only go so far – I've still got all yours, Bucky. Perhaps you might take a look at them later."

He is grateful for that. I don't know how I know this. Perhaps it is the look he gives her; a quick glance, but it is there – the gratefulness, I mean.

I begin to feel distinctively out of touch.

"And we'll have to look through the photographs. I've got a few albums. You sent me quite a few, you know. You always looked like you had a marvellous time, though I don't suppose you would have told me if it wasn't true."

We are silent and the clock ticks away, and suddenly I feel absolutely tired – by work and paradoxes. And my Aunt's acceptance of a paradox. And my small, niggling feeling that there might be truth in the paradox sitting on the same couch as myself, I haven't read all those S.H.I.E.L.D. files for nothing. Also, I have a knife up my sleeve: _what if I accidentally cut myself?_

"I _think_ ," I say slowly and with deliberation. "That it might be nice to have something to eat. The supper is in the slow-cooker – it's chicken," I address, er, _Bucky_ (innocent 'till proven guilty perhaps?). "I hope you like it though I suspect that I put too much chili in it. If you are staying here then you need a place to sleep – haven't got any bedding with you have you? Sleeping bags? Pillow?"

"No," he says quietly. "I haven't."

"Right. Yes. Okay then …"

"He'll have your room." Aunt Becky has placed her glasses on her nose and looks at me over the top of them.

My eyebrows shoot upwards, and if I was in a more dramatic mood I would clutch at my chest and declare myself to be hurt! Mortally hurt!

But I'm never dramatic (ah- _hem_ ), so I simply nod.

We need to have some DNA testing done. Or maybe the photographs will prove that it is truly he – James Buchanan Barnes. But for now, I can smell the chicken and I'm going to need to prepare my room.

It appears that _I_ will be sleeping on the couch.

I bite down a bit of the annoyance at being displaced. Love your neighbour and all. Though I suppose in this case it would be 'love your adopted aunt's long-lost (possibly not, and if so revert back to 'neighbour') brother as yourself.

Do unto others.

Would I want to sleep on an old, floral couch which smells faintly of spilt peppermint tea and musk? No, no I would not. He can have my room then, and I'll be left with a peppermint and musk feeling of virtuousness.

Reluctantly, I put the kitchen knife back into the drawer, feeling a little bit like an idiot as I do so. (I mean, really, how dangerous could he be?)

The chicken stew smells delicious and great burst of steam spirals upwards as I open the lid. Three bowls are filled, and I take two in to Aunt Becky and Bucky. Ha. That rhymes. Almost. Wonder what Poe would make of it ('quoth the raven, nevermore', no doubt).

Aunt Becky takes hers and I leave her telling Bucky of the miracle of Philip's birth ('I was rather old, the doctors said that it was _quite_ impossible and I had given up all hope of a _biological_ child when suddenly … out popped Philip. Though of course, it wasn't so _very_ sudden. You should have seen Scott's face when I told him …').

She's talking to him. Trusting him.

And he's listening to her, watching her carefully, almost as if she's throwing him a life line. One that is … confusing him?

(You know what? I utterly despise paradoxes).

She's not senile – at least, she's weathered remarkably well for her age; still as bright as a button. Only yesterday did she tell me that she wouldn't be surprised if Philip wasn't part of the whole S.H.I.E.L.D palaver (her words, not mine) I told her that he was far too lazy to do such a thing, and besides, his fiancée wouldn't let him.

She snorted and said that his fiancée had as much observational skills as a rock and wouldn't be able to tell if he was 'one of those alien invaders, dear – Chitauri wasn't it?'

I was left duly stunned (one, by the reference to … _that time_ … that I'd thought I'd done a good job shielding her from and two, by the non-belief in Emma's, er, intelligence) and so I'm reluctant to believe that she has allowed a hobo into our flat and is now talking to him as if he is her long-dead brother.

My own supper I take into my room.

I ignore the pale green walls (green is a soothing colour, and thus it permeates my entire room – even the curtains are a soft lime print) and set my bowl down on the bedside table.

I strain my ears for Aunt Becky's voice – there it is; a pleasant mid-pitch with a beautiful little tinkle – and hear the slow accompanying male voice which means that Bucky is talking to her.

I frown and take my coat off, hanging it up behind the door and then kneel beside my bed. It's a little dusty under here but there it is – wedged between a spare blanket and a hockey stick. The photo album is a deep purple and I open it and am confronted with Uncle Scott's face, old and lined with crinkles

His date of birth and date of death still leaves ache, but if the years don't eradicate the pain, they do dull it. I turn the pages from the Proctor family tree to the Barnes' one.

And … there he is. Looking as dashing as I thought him when I was nine and saw his picture for the first time.

James Buchanan Barnes.

I always thought that Philip resembled him – he has the same wide mouth and eyes that can harden and soften with his mood. The eyes …

There is a picture of him that was taken not three weeks before his death, and I know that if I turn the photograph over there would be a scribbled note: " _Becky, picture as requested. Thanks for the soap but it smells of flowers. You're injuring my rep. with the ladies. All's well here. Hope the punk's treating you well. Yours, Bucky."_

A cheerful little note but his eyes tell a different story – a harder one.

And then I _know_.

His hair may be longer. He may have the beginnings of a beard. But … it's him.

Not him in his photo – first taken when he joined the army. Not even him when he was in the 107th. He's changed.

But it's him.

**Known Facts about Bucky Barnes:**

He wrote frequent letters his sister

He was a lifelong friend of Steve Rogers, right up till his own death

and

He apparently has more in common with Captain America than friendship as he is very much alive and looks remarkably well aged for a war veteran. And, oh! _He's in my living room._

I … have no words and stare blankly at my green _soothing_ wall. Soothing. _Right_.

I look at the bed. The sheets had better be changed. The room is rapidly cleaned and I manage to grab a spoonful or two of my stew in between hurriedly cramming everything into the wardrobe, ramming my romance novels as far as I can underneath the bed and stashing my bran-new walkie-talkie thing (Philip gave it to me – as well as its very long-winded name) after them.

I walk back into the hall and hear the trail end of Aunt Becky's words: "… we'll help you Bucky. You can stay here and we will." Her voice is a little weak and a little helpless. I straighten my spine; if Aunt Becky wants to help him then she jolly well will (though I'd vastly prefer him somewhere else. Possibly Timbuktu. I hear the weather is nice there.) I enter the living room and see Aunt Becky with her hand in Bucky's and they _both_ look so, so darn sad that I nearly walk out again.

"Let me help you Bucky, just for a little while. Ida and I- well, you needn't be alone. Stay with us. We won't judge Bucky. Whatever has happened ... _please_ …"

Bucky is looking at her. His eyes … I should probably stop trying to describe his eyes. But if I _were_ to draw an analogy here, I'd say that they look as if hope as dawned on a wounded world full of kicked puppies and kittens. But I'm not going to draw an analogy. Because I'm terrible at them.

He clears his throat and his voice comes out a little hoarse: "Even with this?" And- what, _what_ is he doing? He's standing and taking his jacket off. And then his long-sleeved shirt.

My mouth by this time, I'm sure, has dropped to the floor. Scratch that – it's dropped clear through to the earth's core.

And then he is standing there, looking down at Aunt Becky and _he's got a metal arm._

Aunt Becky isn't shocked. She is looking up at him with eyes which are tear-filled and full of sympathy.

"Even with that, Bucky."

He watches her impassively: "I've killed people."

"Of course you did, dear. You fought in a world war."

He opens his mouth as if to correct her, but changes his mind.

Aunt Becky gestures to the couch. "Bucky … you are my _brother_. Whatever has happened, has happened. Now sit down and put your shirt on. And eat your stew. Ida's put too much salt in it again, but then … it's much better than the last meal."

He stands still for just a moment – a heartbeat. And then he says: "Okay."

I can read voices – I have them in my ear all day ranting, weeping and yelling at me. This one … holds confusion and, and vulnerability.

But then he looks up at me and the nothingness drops back over his face like the curtains at the end of a Broadway show.

I grab my metaphorical jaw and close my mouth. "It _hasn't_ got too much salt in it." I say, instead of the obvious jumble of words (the basic meaning of which translates to a huge: Wha-?!) "It's got too much chili."

Because _really_ , these things _totally_ happen _every_ day. Why - long-dead men _frequently_ appear looking remarkably well aged for dead men and _all_ have, have ... metal arms. Special metal arms that do _not_ look like the usual prosthetic limb fare.

An everyday event.

Nothing unusual about it _at all._


	4. shopping therapy doesn't work

 

_People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician._

He's been with us for two days.

I took the first day off and stayed at the flat – spending the day painting the radiators and scrubbing the bath. Aunt Becky spent her morning sitting next to Bucky, reading through his letters (" … ah, this postcard you sent to me from Coney Island. You had a grand time with Steve then. I envied you as I had a great deal of cramming for an exam to do …").

We didn't see anything else of his metal arm – only his metal fingers. Aunt Becky refused to tell me what his entire arm looked like close up.

And then he upped and left.

(My feelings on this event were mixed – on the one hand, _no more confusion,_ and on the other? I wasn't sure ...)

Aunt Becky told me to put together a hearty supper and to make her a cup of coffee whilst I was at it (she also gave me a gentle reminder that salt went with supper and not supper with the salt – there is _slight_ difference, apparently).

He came back in the evening. Knocked on the door. I stared at him and he at me until he told me to move.

Yes. 'Move,' he said. Manners maketh the man, 'Bucky'. If that really _is_ your name. (It probably is. At this point it's either proclaim Aunt Becky to be mad, myself insane, and Bucky a Very Strange Imposter … or just go with it.)

He sat down at our little kitchen table. Aunt Becky proceeded to say grace and then we ate.

In some ways he _almost_ reminds me of Philip when he was at his growing stage – all gangly limbs, very uncertain of himself.

In other ways he scares me – he can sit as still as a statue for hours and his eyes can grow so very blank and bleak. Like the absence of a seal's eyes when it dives beneath a stormy sea.

(...)

This morning I decided that I needed to go back to work purely because money doesn't grow on trees and Bucky doesn't seem to possess homicidal tendencies (and also Aunt Becky flat out told me to get out of the house).

And so – here I am, in my pink bunny slippers and faded blue robe, standing at the stove and stirring the oatmeal.

A shuffle behind me and Aunt Becky appears, yawning and blinking up at me with a cheerful smile.

"Morning, Auntie! Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. Coffee and biscuits please." She disappears out of the kitchen like a spectre clad in bright yellow. I've argued over and over for years now that cooking and drink-making is my duty and it's time that Aunt Becky put her feet up.

Only recently has she began to listen.

The oatmeal bubbles and spits and I stare at it and question my life decisions. Why on _earth_ am I going to work at such an unholy hour? It just isn't _right._

"Coffee?"

I don't scream. I nearly _do_ , but I am a grown woman and I do not jump. Unless it's a Thursday and I've Had Enough Of The Week. But it's not. So I don't scream. I turn around and there is Bucky standing there, silent and still, in the same clothes he wore yesterday … and the day before.

"Yeah, sure. In the shelf over there. Want a biscuit with it?"

"No."

He crosses the kitchen and opens the coffee cupboard.

"So," I say, turning to face him. "Quick question – I'm sure you're into saving the planet and everything." I hand him a spoon. "Unless you're being taking inspiration from Genghis Khan's Mongols and not washing you or your clothes because you think water is sacred or- is that how it goes? I can't remember. I'm a history buff with no memory. Trust me. Terrible combination. Don't be me when you grow up."

He spoons coffee into his cup. It's quite reverting. It must be; he is ignoring me.

"What I'm trying to say is … do you want more clothes? Do you have others? I'll get you some or you can meet me at the bus stop and we'll have a quick look at one of the stores which close a little later on?"

"I'm fine."

I hand him the already boiled kettle and nod gravely, like a wise sage in one of my fantasy books.

"Yeah. I'm sure you are. But if you change your mind – bus stop. Aunt Becky will tell you where. I'll buy. We missed so many of your birthdays. Obviously. And everyone needs presents. Especially belated ones."

He pours his drink and gives me a delayed nod. I smile at him.

I'm a great believer in smiles, (except when I'm not). But if you smile at a person they will either a) return your beaming smile, b) give a bewildered little smile or c) frown.

He frowns.

My smile dies a natural death. I fight back the questions which keep besetting me. Questions like: _Where have you been? Why do you have a metal arm? Do you have nightmares – there was so much tossing and turning and moaning last night that I nearly came in to wake you, but then I didn't because of the many Unknowns. What did you mean 'you've killed people' (because I think you meant other than the ones you killed in the war)? And why do you seem to be so, so grief stricken at one moment and really, really lethal in the next?_

_Also, if you are_ not _Bucky I will skin you alive with a rusty teaspoon and roast you over an open fire. Probably. Or I'll just call the cops and say Very Bad Things about you and your mother and your mother's mother. Trust me. You'll be terrified._

I look him up on a leaked S.H.I.E.L.D database.

Like my intelligence, there's nothing there.

Okay. I'm lying. Also like my intelligence, what I do find is very sparse.

**What Ida finds (** ** _Heavily_ ** **Paraphrased):**

James Buchanan Barnes, close friend of Steve Rogers (CAPTAIN AMERICA). Was in Howling Commandos. Worked with Captain America in bringing down key HYDRA units. Was captured. Was found. Fell off a train. Dead.

Words on a screen that do little justice to what actually must have happened. I've tried to put myself in Bucky's shoes. But it's impossible. He's probably faced horrors that I couldn't even dream of.

"Do you want some oatmeal?" I ask my silent companion.

He looks up from staring at the kitchen floor and glances at the oatmeal.

"It's very good for you – gives a great start to the morning."

He blinks.

"Just great." I continue valiantly, stirring the oatmeal. "You don't have to have some, but it's important to eat in the morning. Science shows that it's the most important meal of- You know what? I'm rambling. I'm so sorry."

"Okay," he says, and I find myself smiling at him.

"Right. It'll be done a moment or two. I have to keep stirring it or it goes horribly lumpy. And then it's disgusting and gag-worthy. Do you want salt on it or honey? I tend to have honey. Scotsmen have salt. And I'm not a Scot. Er. Clearly. Though my parents had a bit of Irish in them. I think." I'm talking to fill the silence – sometimes empty chatter is comforting.

A bit like a sheet of paper covering the cracks. For a little while it covers it, but then you need something better to do the job. But for the moment, paper-talk will do. Besides – it's all I've got.

"So … what do you say? Do you want to try both?"

He sips his coffee and his greasy brown hair hangs down either side of his face. He needs a shower. Or not. Can you shower with a metal arm? Can he remove it? I give a hasty glance at his metal fingers which hold the handle of the cup. What must it be like-? I don't know. Something in Bucky's face discourages that sort of questioning.

"Salt," he says at last. "I'll have salt."

"Really? Okay then. Your taste buds must be different to mine. Not that that's a bad thing. I put too much salt on everything though; I can't seem to taste it. Which is the reason why I have honey. Strange, huh?"

I glance at Bucky who is staring into nothing. He looks almost … devoid of hope? So I talk: "Even if you don't go shopping, I can get a razor for you. If you want."

"I'll be fine."

Yeah, of course you will. In all your bearded glory. Though, of course, there is nothing wrong with having a beard. _I'd_ have a beard if I was a man. Wait. _Would I?_

I blink. See – this is the reason why I should have stayed in bed; a perfectly rational creature can descend into a colossal pit of daftness for want of just _one_ hour more of sleep.

"Right, grub's up!" I take three bowls and serve the oatmeal into the bowls. Then I put salt on Bucky's, a generous dollop of honey on mine and a little milk on Aunt Becky's.

And with a little tray assembled for Aunt Becky (coffee, biscuits and oatmeal) I take it in to the living room where she sits watching T.V.

"Dreadful," she comments. "That little girl who got kidnapped the other day _still_ hasn't been found."

"The poor kid," I remark, giving her a kiss on her white hair and placing the tray on her lap.

"No salt?" she inquires with her eyes twinkling.

I don't deign to reply, but give her a wink on the way out.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table when I return. And his face is … well, it isn't anguished. It isn't full of grief. It's like an orangutan if an orangutan had heard that orange was a terrible colour and they should pick another only they can't, because nature and biology and oh! The shame! Oh! The tragedy. Oh! The humanity-

… oh.

He's _grimacing_.

I put too much salt in it. Again.

"How about some cereal instead?" I say cheerfully.

Bucky looks at me and gives me a Look. (I do not try and fit an analogy to it. But if I were to, it would be the look of a man who is trying to show that what you said was the Blatant Obvious.)

I ought to be offended, but I'm not. I give him a conspiratorial grin, and fix him some cereal. A glance at the clock leaves some panic - I'd better dash.

Sometimes I can really impress myself with just how fast I can dress.

Work is busy – but then it always is – and I snatch a bar from the vending machine and drink a coffee at lunch time. The coffee resembles mud and the bar leaves chocolate stains on my fingers.

I sit in a little cubical in an office without any windows and with plenty of artificial light. The phones are always ringing and there is a constant buzz of speech. The lights are bright and white – no soft yellow for us. Soft light is for _wimps_ , anyway (or so I assume our managers think).

Amy, my manager, has so many meetings today that I joke with Kevin (tall, Korean heritage, a Brooklyn accent and dressed with a polka dot tie which is always askew and purple sneakers instead of smart shoes. He gets away with it because of his dimples) by the water cooler that in our company, they have meetings _about_ their meetings (and meetings about the meetings which were about the original meetings), then we scurry back to our phones and the often shrill voices of disappointed customers fill our ears.

It's more interesting than Sales, though.

Today passes quickly and is especially busy. I only have one pleasant phone conversation – a customer is so overwhelmed and happy with her purchase that she cries. I cannot decipher what she bought but through her weeping she tells me her life story. Young, newly single with a puppy that has just recovered from worms. Oh, and her mother is in the military.

And she's lactose intolerant.

And she hates carrots.

People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician. But that's okay, _I am ready for it._

I have the _best_ – the very best - 'mmmhmmm, is that so? What a pity!' voice you've ever heard.

I leave work and embrace my freedom with enthusiasm. The sky is overcast and threatening, but it doesn't quite dampen my mood. On the bus I can't be bothered to read – instead I chose to ponder Deep Things. How quickly everything can change, and how humans can adapt to it – case in point: the Avengers, the Battle of New York and three 'helicarriers' playing 'Let's Explode'.

(And then I stop. Because memories and memories and more memories and blood and heaven help me, I can't cope with remembering some things.)

The bus slows to a halt and a hiss. I climb down quickly, hoping to leave the bad memories behind me, abandoned and unwanted.

It's funny – I don't expect it but there he has, standing with baseball cap jammed on his head and hands (both metal and flesh) jammed into his pockets.

He gives me a nod and I have to compute the fact that he is here and I haven't a clue as to how to shop for a man.

"Hello! Did you have a good day?" I greet him.

"Sure," he says.

I shift my purse on my shoulder and deepen my voice: ' _And you, Ida? How was your day?"_

He stares at me and I'm pretty sure it's not because I'm stunningly beautiful.

**Truth:**

Bucky is not staring at Ida because she's stunningly beautiful.

"My day was just great, thank you." I respond in my usual voice. "Okay. Two blocks away and there's the clothing store – it's a small one which always has a sale." I check my wrist – which come to think of it, doesn't have a watch on it but _oh well_. "It will be open for another two hours. Let's go."

We walk in silence and it isn't awkward. This bit of the neighbourhood is a little on the rough side. Always has been. It's comforting to have Bucky by my side.

At the shop we entire and the bell tinkles out a welcome to us and a warning to the sales assistant who is sitting on a stool at the far back, engrossed in a magazine. She doesn't look up.

Of the t-shirts I grab several black ones and then a blue one. The wall behind the clothing rack is coated in a peeling grey paint and the whole shop seems a little grim.

In the centre is a basket full of men's underwear – priced at exactly one dollar and seven cents. I hope they are of a reasonable quality though anything that cheap is _potentially_ a little suspect. I don't exactly enjoy handling men's underwear, but one must be practical and so I summon Bucky from looking a little blankly at pants.

"Do you need to stock up on these?" I gesture to the underwear and pretend that I'm actually pointing to hats. Lots and lots of hats.

He walks over to me – silent steps which both spook me and intrigue me – and stares at the underwear like it's an alien and he's from a primitive tribe.

Er …

I turn to walk away but can't help give a suspicious glance at the underwear and then back at him. Why is he so-? Oh. He's not looking at the underwear. He's looking at the price - at the big, black writing on a crusty bit of old cardboard.

$1.07

I open my mouth to assure him that ' _don't worry – missed birthdays remember?_ ' or ' _it's cheap but they don't look like they will fall apart_ ' but he just … leaves. Walks out of the door with quick strides which a romance novel would compare to a panther ('on a deadly prowl' … sigh! Faint! Swoon!) and I, personally (based firmly in the real world. Ah- _hem_ ) would compare to the walk of a man who really doesn't like underwear or price tags.

I glance back at the price tag, I'd better-

$1.07

_Oh!_

Bucky was in the 107th.

I dump the t-shirts on the basket, cast an apologetic look at the sales assistant and head out after him.

The sky has started to spit rain. Cars are whizzing past; rushing to get home, I suspect. There are a few pedestrians on the sidewalk and ah! There he is with his baseball hat further down. I duck my head against the rain and I increase my strides until I'm practically running.

Perhaps it set off a flashback – the price, I mean. We haven't a clue what he's _really_ been through and maybe the '$1.07' has really affected him. But if he's set off so easily, shouldn't he have some serious therapy?

_(Oh shoot. I need to get him some therapy STAT. What if every moment away from a therapist is doing uncountable damage to his psyche?)_

For a moment, I think I've lost him. But there he is, around a corner – a grim figure striding forwards. Head down. Hands shoved in pockets.

I tighten my grip on my purse as I follow him. This neighbourhood is one that I've never really ventured into – buildings rise either side of me, their bricks old and worn and weather-beaten.

Another corner – I can't walk as fast as him. He turns down a narrow gap between buildings. It's raining in earnest now – a downpour that grows heavier by the second.

I enter in after him. (Yes, it's stupid but I can't just _leave_ him, can I?) It's rather dark and gloomy. Not a single beam of dying sunlight shines through the grey in the alleyway. Litter is everywhere.

"Bucky?"

I peer forwards. But the rain pours down and I blink it away, wishing I had an umbrella and wanting Bucky to just _hurry up_ and come back and be okay.

Silence, except for the pattering of the rain.

But then, I hear a rustle behind me and I turn.

It's sudden. Fast. Swift.

My purse is snatched and my hands automatically clutch at it. I'm not prepared for the sharp bite of a blade on my upper arm. Not prepared for the fist which hits me in the stomach. Not prepared for the hissed ' _bitch!'_ in my ear.

I'm folded at the waist and my purse is gone for my hands have gone to my stomach. I'm wheezing for breath and am unready for the blow to my cheek that sends me sprawling back against the rough brick wall. I hit my head and land on something squishy and slick.

My head is upturned and I see the figure above me - can make out the grey outlines of his face and I'm grateful that it isn't Bucky.

(Aunt Becky would be devastated. So would I. The miracle of having him back from the dead would be irrevocably tarnished.)

And so I'm grateful and so, so _angry._

( _AGAIN?_ I want to rage. _I'm still not healed from What Happened in New York and now I'm going to have to cope AGAIN_?)

A foot hits me on the chest and I try to fight back – I try. I try. I try. But the blows reign down and there isn't a _chance._

And then there are groping hands and suddenly I'm fighting, scrambling for my life. My hand reaches beneath me and I grab what I landed on and swing whatever it is at my attacker.

It is a dead cat.

I think that it stuns my attacker but it doesn't me. I kick my foot out and it collides with something - his leg? - and I hear the 'whoosh' of air which means I've hit something painful.

A flash of his face – angry, but watchful.

A kick which launches me backwards against the wall. I clonk my head again _._ Stunned, the world and its grey colours and red bricks and litter whirl around and around and suddenly all I can see the blood on my arm – a dark red in the dim light.

I am transfixed. Remembering the last time …

_(The streets of New York. Two years ago. A woman in front of me. A shadow above us. A crash. A flash of glass whirling down. Sunlight hitting the pain. It turns golden. And then there was a thud. Blood. A woman impaled.)_

_(Panic. So much panic. It roars in my ears and rushes in my veins and I blink and all I can see is danger. I blink again, and all I see is death, all I can hear are screams.)_

I look upwards and see my attacker lean down, his fist pulled back. I can't help it. Before, all I could do was let out grunts and take sharp intakes of breath but now, now I scream because I'm frightened and bravery is as elusive as a slippery eel.

Suddenly, he's gone. Whisked away. Pulled backwards.

And someone else is leaning over him, just in front of me. Another fist is raised and the thud of a metal fist hitting flesh and bone is the strangest sound I've ever heard.

This isn't a movie with buckets of fake blood and special effects. There isn't any music – heart pounding music that makes the action seem so _cool._ The only background track is the rain that pours down and down and the traffic not far from here – the honk of the horn and the occasional squeal of the tire.

My thoughts are a haze and I'm gasping for air and grasping at anything, anything at all that resembles sanity and reason and _normalcy_.

(Normalcy? When was the last time I possessed it?)

My voice is hoarse and, and maybe it trembles, maybe it doesn't but it's there and it's screaming out in panic: " _Bucky! Stop!"_

And suddenly the fist stops punching, there's a limp man, dangling from one of his hands, and Bucky is looking at me, and I at him and it's silent but the hum of the traffic is still there. Shadows are etched upon his face and I can't see his eyes – can't see their expression. But I can feel his gaze.

Isn't it odd that I don't _think_ at all? All I do is to note the incredible sticking powers of Bucky's baseball hat, still siting firmly on his head, rain dripping from the rim.

And then my attacker is dropped to the floor like a rag doll. And Bucky's gone.

I pull myself up to my knees. My cheeks are damp and bruised. I don't know what to do. Oh – there's my purse next to the dead cat.

I crawl over to it and fumble through my possessions. I'd better call 911. A scratched and grimy hand reaches up and wipes my cheek.

Okay.

Take a deep breath.

Worse things have happened.

Don't be stupid and start crying.

It could have been worse. _It could have been worse._

I make two calls - one to nine-one-one and the other to Aunt Becky.

"Aunt Becky?" I say to her after I've made the other call and my poor heart has stopped thinking I was running a marathon. "There's been an accident- no, it's okay" [it's _not_ okay] "everything is fine" [apart from my attacker, who I crouch over shuddering at what could have happened and feeling sick over what has] "I'm just ringing to ask you to turn the supper down, I'm going to be a little late. No, no – I'm not _crying_. I've just been … um … cutting onions."

I close my eyes and breathe a prayer and then I sit down, beside a broken glass bottle, an overturned garbage bin and a dead cat. Beside the man who attacked me. I can't tell his age. His face is too bloodied. The rain is washing some of the red away.

I don't cry. And if I do, no one will know.

After the Battle of New York, they dished out therapists like hot dogs from a stand, mine was always short on time but she told me that I probably was in shock _and how does that make you feel?_

I can answer it now: this kind of thing ( _shock. distress. violence)_ makes me numb.

The blood is soaking my top and I wonder – as I did on that day when the heavens opened out of the blue and death came through – wonder how reality can include _this_.

How?

It doesn't seem real.

My head hurts.

The rain is slipping down my cheeks. If there are tears there, no one will ever know.

I close my eyes and hear the approaching sirens.


	5. needle meet haystack

_Yes, I don't think that paper-talk is going to fix this._

The engine splutters and in the mirror I can see a grey puff of smoke billow behind me. I grit my teeth and hope that I don't break down.

But then, if I do – I do.

I've got bigger things on my mind right now.

**The bigger things that are on my mind:**

_Where is Bucky?_

_and (most importantly)_

_I left my coat on the bus_

Funny, isn't it? My thoughts could sweep through panicked memories or play those awful minutes on a loop. And they try to – when looking for Bucky becomes monotonous and every slouching figure is someone other than him, then the memories come like a flood and my mind latches onto one little fact - I left my coat on the bus and therefore it didn't get sliced by the knife.

A car blares its horn behind me. I switch gears and step on the gas.

I was going too slowly.

His name was Shaun, the police told me.

The exchange of names was not mutual. Or perhaps it was, but on my side I stretched and marred the truth until it was like play dough that once was a bright blue piglet and now is a blue pancake. The truth is blue but the shape it takes is different; some of the facts stay the same, others depart. Change shape.

I can't tell the truth. I know I should, I know I ought to. But I simply _can't_.

It isn't the fact Bucky is related to Aunt Becky. It isn’t the fact that she would be upset if the truth came out into public view. It isn't even the fact that he is a war veteran, a hero from the past who fought for our freedom.

He is dangerous. There is no doubt about it. The fact was shown to me - punctuated by every punch and sound of metal against flesh. He could cause harm to Aunt Becky, yes.

These are reasons – reasons that should have made me open my mouth and spill the beans. Good reasons. _Sensible_ reasons.

But I didn't tell the cop – even when he looked at me with brown eyes that held a hint of compassion at the stumbling rantings of a soaked, bruised, and shaking woman with pen poised and questions ready.

Why?

Because, because … I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Call me a fool – an idiot even. Any sane U.S citizen would march up to the cops and inform them of the dangerousness of their house-guest. At the way he beat my attacker up. At the lethal silence in which he can sit and his (potentially) deadly past.

He didn't beat me, though. It wasn't me that he hit. He hit my attacker. _My_ attacker. He saved me. And sure, he may have overdone it – perhaps he saw demons and mistook Shaun's face for theirs.

But it wasn't me he was hitting and he stopped when I called.

He stopped and, and somehow … somehow I can't do it. Can't say a single word to implicate him. Even though the sounds of those moments echo in my ears and play before my eyes whenever I close them.

Good thing I'm driving my old van then, isn't it?

Aunt Becky is either wholly lacking in sympathy or is remarkably wise or perhaps a mix of both for she hasn't let me stay still. Today I was supposed to rest and dose myself with painkillers. I'm dosed with painkillers but in no way am I resting.

I've been sent to look for Bucky.

**Ida’s Opinions About This Turn Of Events:**

Bucky is the needle.

The city is the haystack.

_How is this going to work again?_

I glance at the map sitting on the seat next to me. I really oughtn't to be driving. But when Aunt Becky fixes her gaze on me, I have a hard time saying ‘no’. (Daddy issues, you could call them. Except mine are the maternal kind.)

Besides, it's a life lesson for me - something about using a rickety gear stick, yelping in pain and making sure I don't run anyone over. (The lesson? Just … stay in bed.)

I'm just cruising the streets – and … if I wasn't so, so _this_ then I would feel like a creep. A stalker who drives here, there and everywhere without a single clue as to where a certain missing man could be.

And so – shockingly – he is still missing.

I've tried to get myself in his mind-set – to think like he would in order to find out where he would go. They do that, don't they? In cop TV shows and in real life - to search for people.

So far all attempts – naturally - have ended in abysmal failure.

Shaun has been in jail before. For sexual assault. And I don’t know _why_ he attacked me. He just did. Life doesn’t give you nice, neat plot twist. Things just _happen._ No reason behind it. No plot thread to give it a reason why.

But sometimes, small miracles happen and someone steps in and stops something terrible happen. Bucky saved me. And I thank heaven for it.

I want to close my eyes but I can't because I'm driving and so I keep them open and refuse to consider the 'what ifs' and 'could haves' which feel like the edge of a cliff and to indulge in them is to jump into a bottomless pit of fear.

But I'm _grateful_ to Bucky – rather a bloodied Shaun then a hollow me, is the thought that plays at the edge of my mind. But when I think this I think of Shaun's face and I feel so _terrible_ that I should be _glad_ that he was like that.

But, if Bucky hadn't …

These thoughts are troubling so, as I strain my eyes and watch for a man who will never show, I think about my coat and how to retrieve it and wonder if I had anything valuable in the pockets. No, I didn't. Nothing but a packet of mints and used tissue.

The Battle of New York did a number on the city – two years later and while much of the damaged areas are rebuilt, there are parts where the buildings sit there with gashes and scars. These are mostly in the already run-down neighbourhoods. These are the places I drive past and through. Looking for an elusive figure.

But no – he isn't there, of _course_ he isn't.

I'm an idiot and my arm hurts and my chest aches and I need to put more gas in the van. I wind down my window, because the air-con is broken (of _course_ it is). I see shadowed figures flit behind a hardware store that looks as though it needs to use some of its own products and hear a cry for help.

The cry is cut off.

I slow the van down for a few moments, and strain my ears. I bite my lip. Call 911. Report what I heard.

And then, I drive away.

I'm battered and bruised and I don't have a metal arm. But I still feel the guilt. (Shouldn’t I climb out and _do_ something?) My chest hurts and I know that it has nothing to do with yesterday.

I go home and call the bus company about my coat. Aunt Becky tucks me in bed like I'm a little girl again and brings me a cup of tea.

She strokes my head – at first awkwardly (she _never_ did this when I was a child) but then more naturally - as I fall to sleep.

_Day Two_

I'm up and driving before eight o'clock. Lying in bed reminded me of lying in the alley, lying in the alley reminds me of lying in the street when the sky was opened and terrors came through. It’s all bundled up in a bundle of fear, and I keep tensing, waiting for _something_ and staring at my hands which shake.

You’d think I’d be used to it.

(Haha, my brain declares. Nope.)

I've phoned work and they understand – Amy is all consideration and I now know what it is like to be on the receiving end of our customer service.

We're good.

I'm beginning to get to know New York a lot better. It's really big. Ha. I've lived here for so long that I forget that my own little piece of neighbourhood is one of thousands. It's so easy to narrow down the world to make it better for us to live in and understand.

Right now, I feel like a single syllable in a dictionary – small and insignificant. Looking for a needle in a busy haystack of homes and shops and skyscrapers and yellow cabs. I'm trying to hide, I guess. Delude myself into thinking that if the wheels of my van keep turning and I keep moving than thoughts and memories can't catch up with me.

Yeah, it totally works.

I drive past that neighbourhood again – the one from yesterday. There are a couple of kids hanging around. Teens looking more world weary than they should.

The windows are wound down and I catch the sounds of an argument – same hardware store. Same flitting shadows. Those sitting on the sidewalk - leaning against a rundown fence with cigarettes and beer cans casually held between their fingers - don't pay any attention.

I drive home.

This is stupid – I'm an adult. A fully-grown woman. A sensible woman.

I take the next dose of painkillers when I get home and force myself to sit down and read a novel. Somehow the words on the page stay exactly that – there is no magic there, no whisking me away to another time and another place.

I'm stuck on a couch that smells of peppermint and musk with a book in my hands and an aching chest and an arm that has too many stitches in it.

_Where are you, Bucky?_

Philip rings and I tell him about my rescuers – three of them (one young, one middle aged and one almost in his dotage – like the beginning of a joke) all with knuckle dusters - who ran to my rescue when I screamed and beat the living daylights out of the man who attacked me.

It sounds stupid, but I stick to it. The mental image is comical. Humour is my weapon against reality and I wield that sucker like it’s the Ring from- (Wait. a) you can’t wield jewellery, and b) wasn’t the whole point of the Lord of The Rings to get _rid_ of it?)  

He listens for a while, says all the right things and then begins to chatter about his work. I listen as I stand in the hallway and pick at the faded yellow wallpaper with a fingernail.

I nearly thank him for being so normal, but instead simply tell him that I love him and that if he talks back to his boss like that again, he probably _will_ be fired.

He laughs and I hang up.

_Day Three_

Today I wake up and feel as if everything is okay. Back to normal. But then I catch a glimpse of my bruises in the mirror. I do _not_ a weeping mess. Aunt Becky shuffles into the small bathroom and rubs my back.

I tell her it's PMS.

"Of course, it is." Her eyes see too much.

"I'm a coward."

"No dear … every woman goes through the same thing."

I gape at her and a reluctant grin works its way onto my face. "I'd better look for Bucky today. I bet I find him too – third time lucky, you know."

She smiles and I realize that we are paper-talking. It's very effective.

"What's for breakfast, Auntie?"

"Don't think you're getting out of that one, dear. And shouldn't we have a look at your arm? Change the bandages?"

Aunt Becky may _look_ old – wrinkles may chase each other across her face. She may seem as frail as a china doll, I may sometimes find it hard to be around her because _I’m not good enough, I’m not her real biological family, I’m just a cuckoo in her nest but she kept me_ , but … she's there when I need her. Like now. I give her a one-armed hug and a smacking kiss on her white curls.

She understands.

Before we eat breakfast she says grace, and adds at the end: "And give Ida courage and strength. Help her beat back these fears and memories like Muhammad Ali beat his opponents. Amen."

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt and pretend my eyes aren't watering. Only Aunt Becky …

Even though it's raining again today and the windshield wipers are slow and make an appalling noise, I feel almost … cheerful.

Evening comes far quicker then I think possible and I drive by that neighbourhood again. There is a sharp crack and I think it's my van playing up again.

Only when I park the van two blocks away from home – the only parking space I can have – do I realize that it wasn't the van. It _could_ have been a gunshot. The thought makes me pause in locking the van. But then I push the key firmly in my pocket and force myself to think of other things.

The stairs are horrible to climb and I pause at every third step.

I really wish they'd fix the elevator.

I arrive home and open the door. _Yes,_ I haven't found Bucky but the last three days have served a purpose – brought it home with every awkward and painful shift of the gear stick. But I’ve figured out why I’m doing it.

**The purpose of searching for a missing man when the odds of finding him are lower than the Dead Sea:**

_Therapy_

Ha! Aunt Becky is _wise._ I troop through the hallway, burst open the living room door and open my mouth to announce my belief in her wisdom and the probability that I'm going to need to keep driving for another couple of days. Or weeks. Or years.

But I don't say anything.

Only feel a very real sense of déjà vu.

"Hello, Bucky." I say. "Where on earth have you been? I've been looking for-" I don't complete the sentence because Bucky isn't vulnerable, hopeless or empty.

He looks like he's in hell.

I don't think-Yes, I don't think that paper-talk is going to fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean, the closest i've ever been to New York was when i flew over it. it was at night and i can report that the lights were pretty.


	6. green ain't a soothing colour

" … _as delicate as a butterfly's wing …"_

My first thoughts are selfish, and I feel guilty for harbouring them.

Good people, you see, good people would immediately cross the room, put their arms around the broken-hearted individual and offer them unlimited comfort and unconditional love.

Good people _don't_ – and I repeat this to you, future Ida. Make a note of this. Stick it in your non-existent diary and hammer it into your unloving skull – Good people do _not_ think: _'I can't deal with this’_ when they see someone who looks like Bucky does right now.

Good people don't feel like giving up.

Good people are perfect.

And you, _you_ are not.

He is haunted. Look the word up and the definition is Bucky. His eyes are red and swollen. I'm staring at him, as is Aunt Becky who sits as still as a statue on her black seat. He's looking at my painting of Angel Falls which hangs over our gas fireplace.

None of us speak. I slump onto the couch (and also uncomfortably onto _another_ one of those home owner magazines). The magazine slips to the floor, with its centre spread of a woman with a perfect smile with perfect white teeth sitting on a perfect cream chair. And her hair is brown and all … bouncy.

I blink and discover in myself a certain resentment towards that glossy woman who looks so perfect. She doesn't belong here.

And then he speaks with a voice that is rough and broken. Not like glass – but more like a cracked clay pot; its ragged edges rubbing together.

"I remember."

That's all he says. He doesn't need to say much more. His voice says it all, carries a weight about it.

What are you supposed to say to that? It is too much – questions, thoughts, and feelings all bubbling together in a cauldron that spits and burns and to _say_ something is to tip it over and let the scolding liquid burn us all.

"I remember," he says and he turns so that he is facing us both, looming over us yet not really seeing us at all. "I remember what they did to me."

"Do you know," he questions and his eyes – dark eyes. Blue eyes. Terrible empty eyes – scour my mine, "what they did to me?"

I shake my head slowly and my chest feels very, very bruised.

"They made me," he closes his eyes. "They made me a monster."

He sinks to the floor, onto his knees and buries his head in his hands. He stays still for a heartbeat.

What happens next I prefer not to remember. I've buried it deep – deeper than I buried the memories of the Battle of New York. I've pushed back the sound of fragmented – Russian, is it? Or German? Or both – into a damp, cold cell. I've stuffed the sight of a broken man behind it. It is strangely … oh, to say sacred is laughable, but rarely do you see a man so tortured, so torn, so _damaged_ as the one I saw then. I've locked it all away and thrown away the key.

Only, I think the door will burst open again. It feels strangely weak. I can't stand this. My chest hurts, my arm throbs and I wish, I wish … I don't know what I wish.

I don't know how long we've been sitting here – hours it feels like. Hours upon hours that have piled up and are a heavy weight upon us all. He stopped weeping a long time ago. The wall bears the mark of his fist – he didn't hit it with metal, but with flesh and bone which now are bruised and crisscrossed with spilt and bleeding scratches.

He is propped up by the wall with one knee supporting an arm and the other leg stretched out before him, touching the magazine that's still open with the glossy picture of that perfect woman with her perfect white teeth.

He looks utterly spent.

A hollowed husk. He is staring and I wonder what he sees – not me, sitting on the battered couch with tangled short hair and whose face is frozen and damp. Not Aunt Becky who has sunk against her seat looking completely shattered.

It's the lull after the storm.

Or … perhaps the peace in the middle.

His head leans against the wall and I wonder absently if the grease in his hair will make a mark on the cream paint. Like the crack. But different.

I stand on numbed legs and stagger into the kitchen. Swallow some painkillers. Boil some water. Coffee and tea for everyone. And biscuits. You mustn't forget biscuits. Biscuits make the world go round – are shaped like it too. In a 2D kind of way. Unless you believe the earth is flat. (In which case, _educate yo’self.)_

A blanket. Yes. I need a blanket.

I leave the kitchen and go to the hall closet – our linen slash cleaning closet. I tuck a soft blue blanket under my arm and go into the kitchen. Aren't people in shock given blankets?

(Huh. _I_ wasn't given a blanket. Was I? I can't recall.)

One step at a time. They climbed Everest, K2 and all the other seemingly impossible mountains. One step at a time. (Lots of people died in the numerous attempts too. Pessimism, I salute you).

I assemble a tray and go back into the living room. Aunt Becky looks at me and she is tired and worn like an old piece of beautiful embroidery that's faded with time.

My chest hurts and my bruises are throbbing again – everywhere ... stomach, head … just everywhere.

I whisper to Aunt Becky to follow me and this time it is I who tucks her into bed and puts a warm drink and three biscuits on her bedside table.

"Look after him," she murmurs as I leave the room. "Be careful."

I return to the kitchen, retrieve the tray and blanket and approach Bucky carefully. My knees creak as I kneel beside him and place the tray down on the floor. I don't look at his metal hand but awkwardly drape the blanket over his shoulders and slide the tray with its coffee and pile of biscuits over to him. The coffee slops and splashes and soaks the biscuits with the jerking movement.

 **Question:** What does one do next?

 **Answer:** … um …

  1. Retreat to your room and a romance novel. You've done all you can and my dear, dear self, you deserve a break. All things considered.
  2. Hug him. He looks like he needs a hug. (But what if he has boundaries?! Pat him on the back. But gently. Not hard. Just in case- No. Nod. In a warm manner.)
  3. Give him your childhood teddy bear, a romance novel and offer to drive him around in the van. For therapy.



"If you want to talk," I say instead. "I'm here. Because sometimes it helps. Talking, I mean. I never did it, I wish I had done. And I'm here. To listen. Look, I'll sit over there and read about Dukes and fiery spitfires and er, you can talk to me when you're ready. Okay?"

“I am not a kid,” he says, in a low voice. “I don’t need help.”

“No,” I say. “Of course, you don’t.”

He looks so darn pale and _hurting_ – like a living wound that's bleeding and open and raw. And I can't do anything but find a romance novel and sit on a couch with tea that has too much milk in it and a biscuit that I keep dropping, spreading crumbs everywhere.

I swallow and try to concentrate on the words. I can't read a single one.

It is so silent that I can hear my wristwatch ticking.

Bucky moves and I peek over the top of the book. He's drinking the coffee. Slurping it actually. He looks up and I try to pretend that I wasn't staring at him like a concerned mother hen.

Quack. (Oh wait, that's a duck.)

Did he just say something-?

"Upside down."

Yes, yes he did.

I lower the book. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"It's upside down." His hand makes a small gesture. "The book."

I glance down. Ah yes. The Duke of Pembroke is proving that the Alpha Male can even be suspended, upside down, and still maul the love of his life. "Oh, yes. So it is." I smile at him again. "Thanks."

“You’re welcome,” he mutters.

I begin to read in earnest now. But like yesterday, the magic just isn't there. The Duke has slapped the poor-but-in-no-way-plain Jane. I glare at the pages. The Duke is simply an arrogant man who needs to be punched. Repeatedly.

Memories rise up again and I shiver. No. He doesn't need to be punched, I decide - knocked out and shipped to Timbuktu will do perfectly well. With a dead rat stuffed down his pants.

"I'm an assassin." The words interrupt my thoughts and I frown. Did he just offer to off the Duke? No. Wait. _Didhejustsayhewasanassassin?_

I lower my book and look at him.

He looks back at me – the young Bucky from the album, the one that fought in the war and the one who I meet just this week all wrapped up into one man looking at me – the gaze of someone exhausted. "They made me forget … over and over … so many times ... until I fought him – that was the spark, till the end of the line' he said. … he didn't fight back … the stupid punk didn't fight back …" He drains the coffee down with a single gulp.

"Have a biscuit," I suggest, to fill the awful silence.

Metal fingers close around the digestive biscuit and take it to his mouth. "Do you know," he asks me, with biscuit crumbs falling. "Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"No," I say simply.

There’s a silence.

"My name," he says after a while. "My name's James Buchanan Barnes."

It's like he's assuring himself of the fact. So I agree with him: "Yes. You are. Though, by all reports, you go by ‘Bucky’."

He blinks, nods and eats another biscuit.

Time ticks on.

"They put me in cryogenic stasis." He tells me with bleak eyes. "In between. They … froze me."

Ah.

"I fell down into the valley. Into the ice. They found me. They should have left me alone." He stands wearily. The crumbs fall to the floor along with the blue blanket. "They should have left me for dead."

I rise, leave the mauling Duke to drop onto the floor beside the glossy woman.

"You should stay. You’re … safe here. Relatively speaking. If aliens appeared or a jet crashed or- Never mind. What I’m trying to say is – you’re safe here. You don’t have to do or be anything you don’t want to.” I step closer. Touch his arm with my forefinger awkwardly. “You aren’t in the cryog- whatever it is stasis- er, frozen. You’re free.”

He looks down at me. I’m so caught up in wanting to give assurance that I can’t think of an analogy.

"What if I want to be ?" he asks, in a low, fierce voice. "You don't think when you're like that. Everything … stops. What if I want to be?"

How do you answer a question like that? _How_? “Because that would be really stupid. Dumb. Because it's alright to halt everything for a little while, but in the end, you have to wake up and face whatever it is that you're hiding from."

He gazes at me for a moment. And then leaves the room, to go to mine.

I’m kind of useless at providing comfort, but I try; I bring him a warm milk. He is lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I don't think the green paint is soothing him.

"I put a bit of cinnamon in it," I tell him. "No salt."

The glass hits the bedside table with a clink. I hesitate in leaving him. "You can call me … if you need anything. I'm just down the hall."

I think I imagine the whisper of a 'thanks' as I leave.

I change into my pyjamas ('gimme a hug' says the bear on the front of the top), make my bed on the couch and close my eyes. Shaun hovers above me and hits me over and over again. I don't fight back.

My eyes open. The grey light of dawn has worked its way past our flimsy curtains, but this isn't what awakens me. It was a bump from my room. Why is-? Confusion falls off me like a drape and I sit bolt upright.

Bucky.

My eyes fly to the crack on the wall – barely discernible in the shadows, but still there.

Is he leaving?

He shouldn't – not like he is right now. Or was, because this is today and that was yesterday. I leave the couch, nearly trip over that blasted book and open the living room door, yawning.

My light is switched on – yellow beams have crept underneath the door and flooded the hall carpet. I knock.

No response.

I can't be bothered to be sensible – I never am when yanked out of my sleep. I open the door.

 **My First Thoughts Upon Seeing What Bucky is Doing** :

Huh? Is … he … Wha-?

"Bucky … Um. _Hi._ What are you doing? And, erm, why have you moved the bed?" I sit on said bed, noting the rumpled covers.

He continues to draw. My green wall is covered in a black spider's web. Or at least, that's what I _assume_ it is.

I blink and rub my eyes, noting the empty glass on the newly moved bedside table. I strain to see what he's doing. It isn't a spider's web, that's for sure. The last green space on my wall is now covered in black letters. He's writing.

He stands up and drops the pen on the floor – it's a permanent, black ink pen.

He takes a few steps backwards until he is against the bed's wooden headboard. "Names.”

"Alright. You've written names on my wall." I nod in perfect understanding. Then I frown. " _Whose_ names?"

He spares me a glance. His eyes are empty and blue. "The people I've killed - their names."

I look at the wall, blink and rub my eyes again. Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe this is a dream. I don’t wake up. Disappointed, I say: "That's, that's a _lot_ of names."

He runs his fingers through his hair. Rubs his face. Stares at the black ink with the eyes of a hypnotized man. "Yeah."

Questions. There are always questions with Bucky. Here's one, for instance: _you mean these are the people you've killed since you were apparently dead?_ And another: _you're feeling the guilt, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice._

"They’re the ones I remember."

I stare at the wall. And then back at Bucky. “Oh.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and gives a smile that’s dipped in bitterness. "Yeah."

I stand and reach out, touch his bare arm hesitantly. "Bucky. I … you …"

He turns his eyes toward me and I straighten my spine. _One step at a time, Ida. It's the same for him too._ "I think I have an old t-shirt of Philip's hanging about somewhere. You can put it on … and …" he shifts and my eyes see, for the first time, the star – the red star – on his metal arm. I’ve never seen him without his jacket before.

_Bucky …_

That's why he spoke Russian then.

"And we'll have breakfast and, no – you need to have a wash first. I'll get you a spare toothbrush – I really should have thought of that earlier. I'll do you breakfast and then-"

"No."

No, _my foot_.

"Bucky." I gesture towards the wall. "Whatever _this_ is … we can deal with it. Later." Like I will, mentally. For the next four hundred years. "But first _you_ are washing and _I_ am making breakfast and then _you_ will eat it. And if you don't … then I'll make _sure_ I put salt in it."

He is frowning. (Because my logic is impeccable. Obviously.) I hammer my advantage home: " _Lots_ of salt. Now, I'm going to take some pain killers because my arm hurts and- wow, your fist looks so much better than last night. Right. Never mind. Now go to the bathroom and do whatever you have to do, _please_. I'm begging you, Bucky. And after that we'll have breakfast and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out."

He's looking at the wall again. I want to tap him on the shoulder but … For some reason I’m apprehensive. Of him. Because when I look at his metal arm I see a clenched fist and I see it rise and fall, rise and fall and I hear the smack of metal against cheek.

_No, no Ida … it was Shaun. Not me. He did it to Shaun. Not to me. He saved me._

"Bucky?"

"Okay," he says and I give him a smile – a big beaming one that is out of place here. Here with the _soothing_ green wall with names upon names written on it. The names of the dead. I wonder if-

No, Ida. It doesn't bear thinking.

Breakfast.

He has cereal. I have oatmeal. We both sip from cups filled with scalding coffee.

"Hey … Bucky?"

His eyes meet mine. I swallow nervously, pretending it's the painkillers stuck in my throat. "Thanks."

A brief frown and then he remembers what I'm thanking him for.

"You saved me.”

He shifts a little uncomfortably. Gives a tight smile. (THERE CAN BE MIRACLES! cries an astonished part of my soul.)

“And you didn't add a name. To the wall, I mean." Should I have said that? Sure, Shaun is in a coma, but he isn't another name on the wall. And Bucky was able to stop himself when I asked. But, you know, there’s being subtle, and then being as subtle as a bull in china shop and did I just congratulate him for not killing someone? (Yes. Yes, I did. Ida. This is your life now.)

I take a sip from my coffee. Aunt Becky isn't up yet.

A spoonful of oatmeal.

Yeah, this needs more honey.

And for this moment in time we have a strange, fragile kind of peace that feels as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

Yes, there's a crack in the living room wall, and yes, there are names (so many names) scrawled in black ink on my bedroom wall. Yes, he has a metal arm and I have bruises - of mind and body. But … right now. Right now the coffee is scalding, my oatmeal needs more honey and we are both being silent, and we are both … being normal.

For a little while.

Please … I hope this lasts.

But, of course, it won't.

I give a small smile to Bucky and take another sip of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know. two chapters in one day. my middle name is 'spam'


	7. you can't sit down for this

 

"… _darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim."_

Blood. Blood is everywhere. I've got it on my hands, on my torso, on my arms. How are you supposed to treat a bullet wound? Apply pressure and wait for medical assistance?

Great. _No one_ mentioned the fact that when you apply pressure your hands aren't exactly free to _call_ 911 - hence, no medical assistance.

There is a scream and Bucky has, has … well, he's punched someone. Clear over the garbage bins and through a window.

Well. He isn't going to be the one to call 911.

We're behind that hardware store.

I should have stayed on the couch this morning.

The kid is breathing strangely now – great, whistling breaths. I push down with my hands, feel the warm blood ooze between my fingers.

"Hold on, honey," I tell the bleary-eyed teen. "You're going to be alright." She's looking up at me, dazed and bewildered. I sniff and hope that somehow, this is a dream. I look up. There's a man with a knife behind Bucky. He leaps forward, with blade ready.

"Watch out!" I screech.

But even as the words leave my mouth, Bucky has turned and whacked the man over. One punch and guy goes down like a toppled tree. How … how did he _do_ that?

The crack of a gun sounds behind me. I duck – too late. Strange, bullets don't whistle; they crack and by the time you have warning, they have already 1) hit you, 2) killed you or 3) missed you.

Or, in my case, there is option one and a half – graze you. My shoulder, to be exact. I look down and notice the thin line of red that has cut itself through my white, rose-printed top and is spreading like a river overflowing its banks.

Oh. Wonderful, I think dazedly. After all that kerfuffle in high school, _now_ would be the time I turn into a poet.

And also: darn _you_ Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim.

In a blink, Bucky has moved and I hear a clonk as a gun hits the ground, followed by a thud that signals its owner's fall.

Three figures emerge through a doorway, another appearing behind that broken window. Guns are fired and it's like I'm in a strange, unreal dream. A bullet sears my ear – a burning touch - and I duck, pushing my hands down harder on the girl's stomach. Her top is soaked with dark red and- and- her eyes are open and fixed, a little frown wedged between her brows.

She's dead. The fact hits me like a sledgehammer. I don't hear anything else. Only see her - her face. I hear no hard-drawn breathing, even though I strain for the sound of it.

I push harder on her wound, maybe, maybe I just need to add a little more pressure and her eyes will flicker again and her pale brown face will be flushed with colour.

Just push down a little harder, Ida.

You can do this.

_(Auntie_ , I can hear my own voice echo from years and years ago. _Why do people die?)_

My arm is snatched, the world whirls and it takes me a moment to realize that someone - oh. It's Bucky - has hauled me over his shoulder.

“Stay. Here,” he says and everything tilts and it takes another moment to realize that he's tossed me into a dumpster; the one by the alleyway's opening.

It's so cold. I'm shivering and my teeth are chattering like the rattling lid of a pan of boiling water. Fine – the weather isn't cold but _I'm_ cold. A paradox. No, no it's not – it's shock.

I hear gunshots and feel the dull thud as bullets dent my shelter.

How did this happen … how the _heck_ did this happen _?_

**How It Happened**

by

**Ida's** [very helpful] **Memory**

_Conversation between Bucky Barnes and Ida Proctor:_

**Ida:** Hey, Bucky. We didn't get those clothes for you. Shall we pop out and get some?

**Bucky:** …

**Ida:** Bucky, honestly. Sitting and staring at that wall can’t be healthy.

**Bucky:** It's what I did.

**Ida:** Yeah, [clears throat] I know. But, you still need clean clothes.

**Bucky:** [words omitted due to content (though perhaps they were Russian, in which case: aszchlsdjfsk)] has that got to do with it?

**Ida:** Nothing. But – look, you've been wearing those clothes for days now and-

**Bucky:** I'll get some more.

**Ida:** That's the spirit! Come on I'll grab a sweater and then-

**Bucky:** Later.

**Ida:** …

**Bucky:** Ida. Leave.

**Ida:** Alright. I'll leave you alone but, but I'll be back. I promise. And, listen … I'm going to go for a drive, and just in case you want to come … I'll wait five minutes for you, outside. And not a minute after. Okay … so … um … see you.

_Ten minutes later, in the old green van:_

**Ida:** Bucky! Hey! I wasn't expecting you.

**Bucky:** [tight lipped glance.]

**Ida:** Fine, I was _hoping_ you'd come and- never mind. Let's go.

**Ida:** [stalls van] Ha, I mean it's the van … it's always like … this. Sometimes.

**Bucky:** …

**Ida:** [mutters darkly under breath] You don't have to look so darn interested.

**Bucky:** I can hear you.

**Ida:** [sighs heavily] I just can't win …

_Driving past neighbourhood where Ida heard gunshot:_

**Ida:** I rang 911 here, once. Two - er, three? – days ago. And I'm pretty sure I head a gun being fired.

[sounds of shots heard]

**Ida:** Like that – it really sounded just like tha- oh. Oh no. _It sounded just like that!_ Bucky - my cell phone! Call 911. It's in my bag. This is a gang war. Or, or, or a terrorist attack. Nononono.

[Bucky opens door and jumps out of moving vehicle]

**Ida:** _Bucky!_ WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?? COME BACK!

[Ida slams on breaks, scans neighbourhood]

**Ida:** Whattheheckwhattheheckwhattheheck. Where did he go? Shoot. What’s he _doing_?

[climbs out of van, locks door]

_Conversation between Ida and her Conscience:_

**Ida:** This is probably a bad idea. I'm going to be shot. Killed. Slain by a bullet. My blood will paint everywhere red.

**Ida's Conscience:** You can't just leave him. You _know_ what happened last time. If you do leave him, I will torment you for the rest of your life.

**Ida:** … gonna _die._

**Ida's Conscience:** Torment … for the rest of your existence. Every moment. Every breath. Every time you close your eyes. Every time you try to sleep. Every second of every day … tormented.

**Ida** : I am so doomed. There are literally gunshots sounding every second.

**Ida's Conscience:** Walk faster!

**Ida:** Alright, alright I'm going. _Everything's gone so quiet._ Well, this is scary. And strange. But mostly scary.

**Ida's Conscience:** Oh no! What if we _do_ die – who will look after Aunt Becky? Turn back! Turn back! Call 911 and _leave_.

**Ida:** Philip will look after her and they’ll both be quite happy. And I _can't_ call 911 – because of Bucky. I've got to find him and stop him from … from … something.

**Ida's Conscience:** [admiringly] You make a _very_ good martyr.

**Ida:** [approaches hardware store, cautiously. Nears renewed sounds of shouting, shooting and swearing] Oh yeah? Well, you are clearly very delusional.

The next few moments pass in a blur. Ida recalls only stumbling once (however, she did this three times and stubbed her toe once) but remembers (vividly) coming out from the small alleyway at the side of the hardware store and finding a large space behind it, that looked like a mutation of an abandoned warehouse (with no roof) and a graffiti skate-park.

And also a morgue.

Not that Ida has ever been to a morgue before. But this is a mutated form of one. Four bodies lie in unnatural, tangled positions on the floor.

From the shelter of her alley, she can see that there are people hiding behind garbage cans, in doorways and behind piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. With guns, firing at each other.

And Bucky.

Well, they fire _mostly_ at Bucky.

Bucky who is a blur; Bucky who looks like a very, _very_ frightening action hero; Bucky who is currently leaping from a low roof and onto an unsuspecting baggy-pants wearing, gun-toting man's back.

Ida – always normal, always sensible and _always_ sane – becomes, at this point at least, convinced that her mind has been shipped off to LaLa Land. These things just. Don't. Happen. To. Her.

Well, obviously life didn't get the memo.

Because they _are_ happening.

That's it, she tells herself. I'm going to get my cell phone. This is really, _really_ bad.

(Like a serpent, memories from the Battle of New York slip in but Ida ignores them. Or at least, she pretends she does.)

Guns are shooting and a girl with spikey black hair and ears covered with more piercings than skin races from behind a dumpster, across the opening, towards Ida.

She crumples and Ida belatedly hears the shot. She can't help but run forward, can't help but stare, panicked at the red spot which spreads and spreads over the girl's stomach.

Apply pressure, she thinks, phone forgotten.

But then guns are fired, knives are thrown. Bucky tosses someone through a window. Ida gets shot – and is very, very lucky. Twice. The girl, less so.

And then Bucky throws Ida into a large dumpster.

And that – that is where she is now.

**Remembered by:** Ida's [in no way faulty] Memory

**With thanks to:** Ida, Ida's Mind, Ida's Conscience, and Bucky.

I'm alone in a dumpster, trying not to think about what is beneath me, trying not to imagine what's going on around me. I move, slightly and slowly. Oh – look. I can see the sky. That cloud looks like … I see the dying girl's face again; the way her eyes begged for something whilst her mouth moved and only whimpers came out.

The way everything stopped (her breathing, the look in her eyes) and I didn't save her.

(Just like the Battle. When death stalked the streets and explosions were like fireworks and fear, fear cloaked the city.)

No, no – mustn't think. _Must_ not think.

Another bullet hits the dumpster. Someone swears and I hear pain in his voice over the thudding of my heartbeat.

That someone is close by. I can see the hand – pale and white and coarse - gripping the side of my refuge, at my head's end. Fingers with the nails bitten to the quick.

The other hand comes over.

Oh.

Uh.

Um.

There … is a gun in that hand. Loosely held. Pointing at me.

At my head.

At the head which is mine.

_My_ head.

What _do_ I do?

What do I _do_?

Alright, he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. Break it up, Ida. Break up the problem like you do in customer service. And breath – you know, the little thing that keeps you alive? Yeah? That thing. Do it. Oh, wonder of wonders, I've forgotten how.

Nope, there it is.

Right. So, if you keep still then … he won't notice yo-

He's resting his head against his hands. I can see a mop of dull, brown hair. If he raises his head he's going to be faced with the view of a petrified woman covered in blood, in a dumpster.

Don't raise your head, I chant in my mind. Don't raise your head.

So, _of course_ , he does.

Black bruises beneath sunken eyes, his face is covered in red blotches and his hair is scraggly and thin.

It happens in a moment – a thousandth of a second. I'll never know what keeps me here and what stops me from being blown head first into eternity.

I move, you see. Jack-knife into a sitting position as the whole dumpster shudders with a shot. And I don't stay still – I'm on my feet and with the speed of a startled hare or deer I launch myself over the end of the dumpster.

Another bang.

Searing pain.

No time for it.

A quick survey of the … yard? shows me the bodies lying on the floor. I'm in a crouch with my back against the dumpster and a rough bit of wall touching my left arm. I can't see anyone – just the bodies on the floor.

But I can hear _him_.

I can't run else I'll have a bullet in my back quicker than you can say 'we're not in Kansas anymore'. No, time to put my non-existent black belt to good use.

The best defence is a good offense. I hope.

Thoughts run like ticker-tape on caffeine through my mind, yet everything is so slow. This is someone else's life, I think as I hear the crunch of footsteps on broken glass; not mine. I'm watching a movie. This isn't me.

I'm in an invisible fog. Watching someone's life through a window pane.

Everywhere _hurts_.

This is real, I think. And I wish it wasn't.

I want to give up, but I can't.

I want to lie down and remember that girl's face. No, I want to forget. Give in. I'm _so_ scared. My hands are shaking. My breathing rattles. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears are filled with its thump. I can't do this.

I can't.

I think of Bucky. Of Aunt Becky.

And then I see the tip of his shoe. A heartbeat. My left hand clutches at something.

In one motion I grab the rim of the dumpster with my right hand, haul myself up and bring what is in my left hand down _hard_ onto his upper arm.

He goes down, spasming almost, clutching at his arm.

It was glass, I realize dumbly.

It was glass, I think as I stare at the blood trickling down my hand.

I've killed him.

Then – no. He isn't dead. He's rolled up into a ball. Moves about. Jerking convulsively and swearing like a sailor in a hoarse voice which rises at the end of every word. Crying like a wounded animal. Clutching at his arm. Doing all these things in seconds, in moments, whilst I stand and feel like I'm reading about this. This isn't me here. It can't be me.

Someone swears behind me and I grab the fallen gun off the ground (and feel the gravel clog my fingernails and the rough concrete scrape the backs of my fingers) and swivel.

(I've watched movies, action movies, you know. Only here there is no choreographed fight scenes – only instinct. And precious little at that.)

She's got a gun too.

She's wearing a blue 'Hello Kitty' tank top. Choppy blonde hair frames a snarling face with decaying teeth and spitting eyes. Her arms are skinny and you can see the difference between the wiry muscle and the flesh which hangs loose.

Paradoxes. Again.

"Drop the gun," she says.

She curses when I don't.

She thinks I'm being stubborn.

I'm not. I'm not.

I can't let go.

I _can't._

So we stand with guns trained on each other. Mine is heavy and wavers and I feel the trigger with my slick and wet fingers. Her gun is steady.

My fingers convulse; shaking so, so badly.

I pull the trigger.

I don't know _why_ I do it – maybe it's the shaking of my hands, or a slight movement of the girl opposite me that causes my mind to spasm in panic and my finger to jerk and pull at the metal.

I pull the trigger.

And the girl opposite disappears in a blur even as a gun fires. She just goes … sideways. Oh. It's Bucky. He's taken her out. Tackled her like a football player.

I lower the gun.

And he straightens, eyes shooting to mine. She's gasping on the ground.

This is-

I can't-

I-

There are sirens in the distance – piercing as they come ever closer. Bucky is at my side, pulling me by the arm.

"Run!" he barks.

I really can't do it. Everywhere hurts. Everywhere aches.

The world is as real and as sharp as glass cutting my skin. It hurts too much. I think I'm going to be sick.

“Ida. Faster.”

“I can’t,” I grit out. “I don’t go to the gym.”

The sirens are closer, so close that they overwhelm my ears and all of a sudden the world swirls and twists again and I feel the solid metal of Bucky's arm as he chucks me over his shoulder and runs.

I watch – upside down, with great dignity – as we leave that awful place. He's taking me away – away from the alleyway, from the dumpster. I have a nice view of the ground, broken bricks and – was that a _needle?_ We're on a tiny road now and Bucky's still running. I'm jerked and jogged but he runs with a strange smoothness and in his calmness I find a meagre ration of strength.

And then suddenly I'm placed on a hard surface and I blink.

I'm sitting on a bike; straddling a motorbike, to be more accurate.

There is no time to think, I nearly fall forwards but Bucky slides on in front of me and I lean against him. He does … something fiddly with whatever is up front and the engine rumbles.

"Put your feet up," he tells me.

There is a shout and I turn – look down the narrow strip between two old grizzly buildings towards where … it ... happened.

A figure is there, clad in blue.

A cop.

I feel a jolt of relief: the police – they'll make everything better … won't they?

But suddenly we are flying forwards and zooming down narrow streets and zipping around corners and the wind whips my hair and I clutch at Bucky, feel the roughness of his jacket and realize that whatever we do, we can't go to the police – because how on earth can I explain it all away?

My memory shows me a picture of a green wall and so many names.

What would they _do_ to him?

I hold onto Bucky and close my eyes.

Right. I need to make sense of this, this, well – whatever just happened.

**Making Sense of the Thing Which Just Happened:**

  1. Clearly we interrupted some sort of … gang battle?
  2. Why did Bucky jump out of the car?
  3. I stabbed someone in the arm. With some glass
  4. Why didn't I call 911? Dumb. So very dumb.



10,589. I _shot_ at someone.

8,005,042. In conclusion … I have no idea what just happened.

The engine slows and then cuts and I open my eyes to see that we are at the back of some apartments. Great. Another alley. This is becoming a habit. There is a fire escape – grey and rusted – stretching up above us.

Bucky gets off the bike. He glances over me, checking to see if I’m alive, I suppose. He holds his hands out and I clamber off the bike with his help. There is a dull clunk as the bike falls to the floor behind me.

“Hold on,” Bucky says.

“Huh?” I say with beautiful eloquence.

Hands go around my waist and I am launched into the air and onto the fire escape.

Bucky leaps up, catches hold of the lowest bar and hefts himself onto the fire escape with me. He gives me a look and his eyes are cold, but maybe that is just me. Everything is cold right now.

"Where are we?"

"At the back of your apartment."

He puts his arm around my shoulder and lifts me up. He glances behind me.

"You got shot in the ass."

"Oh," I say dazedly as we go upwards, each footsteps making a muted clang. "Really?"

"Yes."

"That’s nice."

Another flight of winding metal steps. There is a dragon in my stomach and it twists and turns and I rather think that the contents of my stomach wish for an abrupt relocation to someplace more … airier.

"It's just a scratch," he says.

Another footstep.

This is like climbing Everest.

Honestly, it is.

"I’ll probably survive," I attempting to be optimistic. Somewhere in between climbing out of my green van and being dumped on the back of a motorbike my eyes have been overflowing with liquid and my cheeks are damp. Gosh darn it.

“Probably,” comes the assuring assurances from the man beside me. (By the way, climbing up a fire escape? Two people wide? Uncomfortable. Two out of ten, would not try again.)

It feels like days, months – years, but here we are. Bucky opens a window (how, I don't pay much attention and to be brutally honest, I don't much care) and we are suddenly surrounded by familiar walls.

Green soothing walls.

But even these look alien to me – the bed has moved, the wall bears the names of dead people and I haven't slept surrounded by green for a week.

But still, I leave Bucky staring at the wall and force myself to go to the bedroom door and call Aunt Becky.

"Yes, love?" she responds from the living room and her dear, _dear_ voice makes me want to bawl helplessly. But I don’t. ( _I won’t._ ) I walk – not without great effort and aid from the walls – to the living room and peer around, not so that she can see my body, but so that I can see her.

She's knitting and doesn't look up when my head pops into view.

"I didn't hear you come in," she says.

I can't tell her. I honestly can't.

So many stupid 'cannots' I've been running into today.

"I'm just going to … change and put the dinner on."

She's reached a difficult point in her pattern and so she peers at her handiwork (a cream sweater, for Bucky no doubt), tuts under her breath and speaks absently: "Alright then. Is Bucky well?"

"Yeah," I say and I think my voice cracks. "I think so."

I turn away and look down the hall.

Huh.

I walked aided by the walls and, and where I put out a hand to hold myself up … is a trail of smeared red. Red paint. My blood on the wall.

No, not all of it.

That poor kid's blood.

Painting my wall.

I slap a hand to my lips to hold back a sob.

Bucky appears from my bedroom and gives me an assessing look. His eyebrows flick upwards and he walks forwards and takes my hand away from my mouth.

“It’s not all my blood,” I tell him.

“I know.”

Somehow, I am moved into my bedroom and sat on the bed.

“First aid?”

"Kitchen, second cabinet above the counter. On the left."

He disappears, leaving me just to sit and stare.

And then he's back and he's disinfecting and stitching and handing me painkillers and I feel swept up in a blur and don't even blink when I have to shift so that he can stitch the wound on my bottom and swamp it with enough disinfectant to sterilise a sewage plant.

I'm sure, in another time and another place I'd find this mightily embarrassing - but right now? Right now I'm _done_.

"Why did you get out of the van?" I ask him.

I’m lying on my side (getting grazed on your bottom is … impractical) and he is sitting on the edge of the bed, tending to my shoulder.

"I thought …" I feel the cold touch of metal fingers on my arm and the sting of a needle piercing my skin. I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone snow white.

I look at the wall and see the names. I wait for him to gather his words. Maybe he won’t share them.

"I thought I was in a mission. It was a …"

"Flashback?" I suggest.

"No," he says and snips the thread. Out of the corner of my eye, I see green stitching. Green to go with my room. Wonder where he found the thread. “Yes.”

"Oh."

We don't speak for a little while and I can hear the noise of the television – Aunt Becky must have just switched it on. _"… the so called 'Kid-Napper' is now in police custody … "_ booms out a newsreader and then his voice fades and I know that Aunt Becky has lowered the volume.

I remember seeing one of his victims in the paper. So they found him after all. I hope they found his victims. Hope that they are alive. Hope that they aren’t left scarred.

An image of a pale brown face flashes in front of my eyes and I fight it and force the overwhelming feeling of distraught sadness backwards.

Bucky speaks: "You lost blood.”

A short silence.

“You won’t die from it though.”

I look up at him and tilt my head to the side. “Thanks. You are _very_ reassuring.”

The corners of his lips twitch. _Minutely._ “Sure, I am."

"The bike," I say. "What are you going to do with it?"

My shoulder is bandaged. Now he takes up my hand. My head is swimming and I feel faint and sick. But I have important questions to ask: "And my van, what am I going to-"

"I'll get it back for you," he promises.

He’s cleaning my hand and _oh my gosh it hurts so much._ I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth.

He stops cleaning. I peek one eye open and see the dried blood on the old (clean? I hope it’s clean) towel he placed on the bed. The wound from the glass wasn’t deep enough to sever anything but my _gosh it looks so bad I want to be sick._

Bucky looks either troubled or mildly constipated. "Sorry," he murmurs, his eyes flickering to mine. Hands paused. Mine cradled between them.

"For what?"

"For everything. I’ve messed up your life.”

He has. But he doesn’t need to know that I think that. So I open my mouth and try to be reassuring even though _my hand looks so bad and my shoulder hurts and I’m not going to be able to pee usually for days because I got shot. in. the. backside. How am I going to sit on the toilet seat? I’m going to have to hover and my leg muscles are literally none existent so it’s going to be_ fun.

"Don’t worry about it,” I tell him with smile that is probably loopy. “Life is far more … erm … _interesting_ with you around.”

He shakes his head – a tiny motion, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. “Sure it is.”

He starts cleaning my wound again and applying some sticky things to keep the wound together. (Not being an expert in First Aid, I haven’t a clue as to what he is doing. All that I know is that … I would very much like to say Very Bad Words to him because _boy it hurts._ )

"The gun had no ammo left," he tells me and I blink at him because: _huh?_

"The gun you had," he clarifies. "It had run out of bullets by the time he reached you round the dumpster."

"So I stabbed him in vain?" I question. I cut my hand for _nothing_?

"No," he says quietly. "He would have killed you with the knife he had in his pocket."

My mind flits to another memory: "Wait a sec … does that mean that the gun that went off when you … tackled that girl-" (or woman. How old was she? Early to late twenties?) "-was actually … _hers_?"

"Yes."

"Ohhhhh …" I say and find myself teetering on the cliff of 'what ifs'. "Then … you saved my life."

"Yeah."

"Thank you. And you did it more than once – you tossed me into the dumpster as well." Huh. Don't think I've said something like that before. I can’t help but chuckle. “I can’t believe you tossed me in the dumpster.”

“Sorry.”

“You think I’m trash?”

He is bandaging my hand now. He pauses – again – and looks down at me. “No,” he says.

“Oh. You sure? Evidence points to the contrary. You tossed me in the dumpster and everything.”

“Yeah?” His eyes glimmer ever so slightly. Like in another lifetime, he would have found this funny. But there’s too many burdens on his shoulders, too many memories, and actions, and _names_ that weigh him down, hanging round his neck like millstones and he _can’t_.

"So … " I say, to change the subject. "Was it a gang war?"

"Perhaps. I found some drugs-"

"You _what?!_ "

"I didn't take any," he assures me.

" _What?_ " I choke.

"Didn't _bring_ any back with me," he corrects himself and finishes binding my hand. "They were probably contaminated."

"The cops will find them … right? The drugs, I mean."

"Yes."

"Oh my word – will they find my van? It's a little ways _from_ where, where _it_ happened but could they trace me to-"

"Maybe."

I give him a half-hearted glare for being so truthful (sometimes you just want to hear comforting reassurances, regardless of the truth). "I'm doomed."

"No," he says. "No - you're not."

And then he stands up, wipes his hands on a rag, goes to the wall, kneels down and picks up the pen. And writes 'Unknown x 3'.

He doesn't look at me when he stands again, but he directs a question at me: "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah … " I smile at him – a very weak and a very wobbly smile. "Yes, please."

And he leaves the room.

I can still hear the low murmur of the TV. Aunt Becky's okay. But how to tell her about all this? Should I? She _clearly_ is going to notice – I've got a band aid on my ear and bandage on my shoulder, and even more wounds to add to my blossoming collection.

I open the bottom drawer of the bedside table, look blankly at the romance book that stares up at me. Close the drawer. Cast my arm underneath my bed and feel for my teddy bear.

I don't care if it's childish but I curl up, facing the door, and bury my face in Winnie's musky fur. Bucky comes back in. He places the glass on the bedside table and sits on the floor, leaning against the bed. Without realising quite what I’m doing, I reach a hand out and lay it on his shoulder. He stiffens, but he doesn’t shake it away. And there we stay. Remaining very still for a very long time.

He with his demons, and I with mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behold - the burn begins to ... erm ... slow? Show? Gah. (Wut r wordz?) 
> 
> Also? Stitching up someone's bottom - AND THEY SAY ROMANCE IS DEAD!


End file.
